


Tangled Up

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Series: Song Prompt Fics [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6099455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You and Dean crash for a night at a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and it's hot.</p><p>For the song prompt "Burnin' It Down" by Jason Aldean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled Up

It’s hot. Sticky, southern, August hot. The kind of hot that makes you wonder if you’ll ever feel cool again. The air is thick and hazy with humidity, even after the sun goes down, but you tilt your head back and toward the open window to catch the breeze rushing in anyway. Humid breeze is better than no breeze at all.

Dean parks the impala out in front of the tiny dark cabin, and you peer at it through the windshield. This is supposed to be a quick pit stop to catch a little sleep between Jacksonville and Lebanon, an old hunting cabin that Dean knew about, had crashed at before, a friend of a hunter friend’s property somewhere in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Arkansas. That is, if you can even get to sleep in a cabin with no AC in this ridiculous heat.

“This it?” you ask.  

“This is it, sweetheart.” Dean looks at you out of the corner of his eye. You shrug, creak open the passenger side door, and slide off the seat, your bare thighs sticking to the hot leather. You grab your bag out of the back as Dean locates the key taped under the welcome mat with a little noise of triumph.

Once inside, Dean locates the lights and you toss your duffle toward the couch and start opening windows to get some air flowing. It’s a little stale, but not too bad. There are sheets on the double bed in the corner and a sink and a mini fridge on the opposite side, a little record player on a stand across from the couch, and a door to your left that you hope leads to a bathroom. You’ve definitely slept in worse places.

“Not bad, right?” Dean looks pleased with himself.

“It would be better if it wasn’t so fucking hot,” you whine. You’ve barely moved and you’re already dripping sweat; you can feel it wetting the hair at the back of your neck and dripping down between your breasts.

“Hey. At least we’re not sleeping in the car.”

You go to the bathroom, splash some not-quite-cool water on your face, pull your sweaty hair into a high bun, and trade your jean shorts and t-shirt for sleep shorts and a cami. The less clothing you can get away with in this oppressive heat, the better. And it’s not like Dean hasn’t seen you naked before. When you come back into the main room, Dean’s crouched in front of the kitchen cabinet in just his boxer briefs and a ratty AC/DC tshirt with the sleeves cut off, and there’s a battered old box fan on full blast pointed at the bed.

“I found a fan!” His shout is muffled because his head is halfway into the cabinet. “And some whiskey!” He emerges and holds up a bottle, smiling a smug smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. You laugh at his appearance. You’ve rarely seen him so naked, except for when you’re actually fucking.

You stand in front of him, pull on the frayed edge of his shirt. “I didn’t peg you for a muscle shirt type, babe,” you tease.

“Hey, you said it yourself, it’s fucking hot.” He pecks you on the lips and then turns to the mini fridge. “Now let’s see if we can find some ice.”

After determining that there is in fact no cell service in this place, you decide to rummage through the stacks of records. You choose one, set it on the player gently, and place the needle down. A twangy guitar riff fills the room.

“Alabama? Really?”

“Trust me, it’s the best option they got.”

Dean splashes some Jack Daniels over some ice cubes and hands you one. You take it gratefully and, after a sip, press the already-sweating glass to your sweaty breastbone, letting drops of water slide down your skin and into your white tank top, sighing at the momentary feeling of coolness. When you open your eyes, Dean is staring at you with his glass raised halfway to his parted lips, his eyes dark.

“What?” you ask innocently.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he growls, his other hand reaching for the waistband of your shorts.

“I am not,” you object, but he’s set his whiskey down and he’s tugging you forward, settling his hands on your hips and pulling you into him. You can feel the half-hard line of his cock through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Dean, it’s too hot,” you whine halfheartedly. He doesn’t respond, just turns you around and boxes you in against the sink with his arms. He picks up his glass and presses it to the back of your neck, right against your hairline where sweat is dripping, and then drags it down over the ridges of your spine. You sigh and lean back into him, and he blows lightly on the shivery wet trail of wetness on your skin.

“That feels amazing,” you say.

“Come ‘ere,” he says into your hair, grabs your free hand and leads you to the bed. The breeze from the fan cools you even more, and you don’t stop him as he takes your glass of whiskey out of your hand and sets it on the nightstand. A few stray strands of hair whip around your face as you look at him, and he kisses you, nudging you toward the bed with his body until you fall onto it, sprawled on your back on top of the sheets.

He hovers over you, hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and panties, and pulls them down off your legs, tossing them to the floor. Your tank top joins the pile, and then so do his boxers and t-shirt, and he lays flat on the bed with his broad shoulders wedged between your thighs, spreads you open with his hands, and slowly starts to eat you out. He takes his sweet time, working his tongue and his fingers slow, steady, until you think you’ll go out of your mind. You card your hands through his hair, gently at first and then pressing your fingers into his scalp, trying to urge him to go faster. You don’t realize your hips are bucking against his face until he lays a forearm across your lower belly to hold you against the bed.

“God, fuck _Dean_ ,” you moan. He chuckles and it sends a thrum of vibration through you. But just when your thighs start to shake, he stops, props up on his elbows and looks up at you, his face shiny slick from his nose to his chin.

“Dean!” you protest, throwing your head back against the bed in frustration.

“I got you, sweetheart,” he says, and when you look at him again he’s rolling on a condom. He slides his fingers through yours, loosening the death grip you didn’t even realize you had on the sheet, and lines up and slides into you, stretching and filling your throbbing pussy an inch at a time. When he’s fully seated, he pauses there and bites his lip, looking down at you with lust blown pupils.

“God you feel good,” he says softly. His fingertips touch your collarbone, drag down over your breast, and you reach up and wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull his face down to yours and kiss him, full and open mouthed. You’re already trembling under him when he finally starts to move, not really thrusting as much as just rolling his hips, grinding his pelvis into your clit, and it just takes three shuddering breaths before you’re seeing stars and clenching around him, screaming your way through your orgasm.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” he encourages.

As you come down from your high, he starts really thrusting, bracing his forearm against the mattress next to your head and dragging up against you at the top of each thrust. He mutters a string of curses into your hair that eventually turn into incoherent groans and breathless grunts. The bed frame creaks loudly, but you barely notice or care because Dean gets an arm under your knee and lifts, opening you up even more, getting just the right angle. You cry his name as you come a second time, and he’s just moments behind you, his thighs going rigid, his forehead pressed into your shoulder.

After you’ve both caught your breath, Dean slides out and rolls over onto his back. He ditches the condom, and turns his head to look at you laying on your side next to him, sated and happy. He tangles his fingers with yours, the only part of your bodies that’s touching.

“That was…” he starts, his mouth turning up at one side.

“Yeah,” you finish, still a little breathless. The breeze from the fan dries the sweat on your skin, ruffles your hair, and you close your eyes. You might get some sleep tonight after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Comments are SO appreciated! :)


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